Che Peccato, Buonanima
by AnimalDecay
Summary: "That is where you are wrong, Antonio. This has everything to do with our bosses." Oneshot. Spamano Mafia AU. Yaoi.


**Title: Che Peccato, Buonanima**

**Characters:** Mafia AU Spamano. LovinoxAntonio, if you prefer.

**Rating: T** for character death, themes of violence, and yaoi. Which is probably why you're here to read this anyway, isn't it? XD

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Hetalia, I would be an Asian man. But I'm not. So I don't. (Did I do that right?)

**Note:** Possibly a bit OOC in the dialouge, but that comes from a headcannon that during the mafia era, everyone was, to some extent, a super refined gentleman person with fancy interactions. So yeah.

Review, fellow fanfictioners! Por favor, with tomatoes on top~? I actually live for those. *Puppy-dog eyes*

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**Che Peccato, Buonanima**

On this particular evening, as he moves quickly through the long hallways, the man is visibly distracted- anxious even. He feels unduly stiff tonight, although it is far simpler to lend such (admittedly rather extravagant) discomforts to the heat of the night and the rigid creases of his freshly ironed waistcoat and trousers rather than to re educate himself on his true premise for stepping into this building in the first place. So he is relieved that the corridor in question is notably empty, save himself of course, and not a soul, be resident or prowler, can question his unbearably revealing countenance or tonight's activities.

He absentmindedly considers the carpet for a moment, observes the color, and is reminded faintly of blood.

(It is only later that he chastises himself lightly for this unprecedentedly cliché thought. He is, after all, a man of class and worth, and would not generally put himself up to such unusually silly behavior. But, he observes, this particular day as well as the past- was it really nearing a month already?- was by no means usual anyway.)

If all had gone as planned from the beginning (which was never the case, but he supposes that such is to be expected. Indeed, he remarks, it is the nature of his occupation to be incessantly and, as he sometimes believes, unnecessarily rebellious against what at first appears to be a well-planned operation) he would likely be sitting idly in his own home, unoccupied and restless; something which he generally loathed passionately, but which would be welcomed greatly over his current predicament. However, such could obviously not be the case at the moment, and it would be only logical to stop this pointless inner lamenting about how exactly he ended up here, and instead focus on what is to come in the uncomfortably near future.

His mind, naturally, has other ideas.

That evening, so long ago but equally vivid in his memory, is not a pleasant one to recall. His employer (hardly coincidental that the man also happens to be his unorthodoxly young grandfather) had briefed him, and he was dispatched to the old bar where some Spanish dealer working under a different, ah... _Capo di tutti Capi_, as it might be called, apparently frequented. He was meant to lure the man out to the back alleyway, make a quick piece of work of him with the revolver in his briefcase, and leave quietly. It was supposedly foolproof, and he was no fool regardless.

Well, in hindsight, it may have not been such a wise idea to let the strangely and unduly affectionate Spaniard, called Antonio, purchase him a drink. As the edges of his vision had begun to grow hazy, he had found himself deviating from his usual hostile nature (such a nature would have doubtlessly been useful in the situation) and warmed considerably toward the man, even taking the measure to instill some familiarity between the two by drunkenly describing some of his most unusual practices and preferences (his truly most unconventional practices and preferences, of course, were not to be revealed, as he had at least some of his wits about him and was by no means going to allow them to be exposed until later. And now, unfortunately, later had long since come and gone.)

The man has become so engrossed in his thoughts that he hardly realizes as he passes the door by altogether. Muttering curses at the floor (which was clearly responsible for his mildly embarrassing mistake) he turns and walks back, this time making sure to stop in front of the correct door. He makes an attempt to compose himself and ignore his perspiring hands against the metallic briefcase handle and hammering heart against his rib cage, and raps his knuckles on the dark wood. The sound is sharp and loud against the corridor's flaccid silence. He does his best not to cringe as the door yields and reveals another man, backdropped by a lavishly adorned apartment.

For all of his shortcomings, the man at the door can certainly smile.

"Hola, Lovi! I wasn't expecting you here tonight." The corners of his lips curl into something more akin to a smirk than a real smile, to which Lovino Vargas merely scowls at.

"Ever the man of substandard wit, Antonio. Obviously you didn't know. I never called." If he was a better man, he imagines he would have apologized for snapping, but such is simply not his nature, so Antonio will have to excuse him. Besides, it's not as though this wasn't something Antonio had never experienced before (as a baseline attitude, at that). "And I believe," he continues with an air of casual irritation, "I've told you not to call me that."

Without asking (a perfectly deliberate gesture, thank you very much), he pushes past the Spaniard and into the luxurious apartment.

Antonio isn't at all put off by the hostile nature of the visitor, and merely follows him back in, grinning- in Lovino's opinion, rather moronically.

"It's been, what, a week and a half? You never stay away that long."

"Well, judging by the fact that I have this briefcase in my hand," he scoffs, "I would say I was, oh I don't know, working. But have a guess, won't you?"

The conversation continues on in this manner for some time, until Antonio begins to fuss about Lovino needing to eat dinner (something which annoys the latter to no end, as he's clearly not in any imminent danger of starvation). To quell said irritant, he suggests the Spanish man get on with it while he waits in the parlor. This seems to have the intended effect, for it successfully rids him of the offending force, though not without a tight embrace (initiated solely on Antonio's part, of course) and a quick peck on the cheek. Unfortunately, this only serves to make Lovino feel all the more guilty about his true intentions.

As Antonio frets about in the kitchen over what is to be prepared for the evening meal, the Italian quickly opens the briefcase to assemble its contents. He puts the silencer on the barrel of the firearm, and not a moment too soon; the Spaniard traipses happily back into the room just as Lovino is able to squirm the object between him and the couch cushions.

"The water just has to boil. I'm making pasta, because I know it's your favorite!" He smiles freely. The Italian attempts to conceal his frown with a smaller smile (one that probably resembles a grimace more closely. He is, after all, a bit out of practice when it comes to such facial expressions). The poor bastard doesn't even know what's coming to him.

Evidently Lovino's discomfort is present on his face, because Antonio's expression softens immediately as he tilts his head to the side like some sort of clueless dog. "Is something wrong? Are you alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine, thanks," he responds, possibly a bit too quickly, too politely, for it only lends for concern to be wrought deeper into the Spaniard's expression. Hot panic rises up inside of Lovino at this, and without passing it through his better judgement, he pushes his mouth up against Antonio's, simultaneously pulling the revolver out from underneath him and putting it to the other's head. Antonio gasps slightly as the cool metal presses to his head, and pulls away. His movement is impeded rather, as Lovino has a firm grip on his shirt to prevent his escape.

"What- Lovino, what's going on?"

"I would tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." He laughs harshly at his own small joke (although truthfully he has no idea where this cruelty is coming from, he's generally not so inclined to attempt humor when he kills people he's well acquainted with- or perhaps, tonight, far more than simply "acquainted"). "Although, interestingly enough, that's going to happen anyway."

"I don't understand. Why do you have to-"

"I wonder, have you heard of the Vargas administration lately? Indeed? Ah, it's beginning to make more sense now, isn't it? You see, I happen to be Lovino Vargas, grandson of Roma Vargas himself. Mr. Vargas is not pleased with your boss's little game right now, and he's decided to play a game, of sorts, of his own." As he talks, Antonio's expression has morphed from one of confusion to shock to unabashed terror. "It was my assignment, as you may have guessed by now, to gather information from you, and then kill you. And I believe I have gathered all the information I need."

Antonio swallows hard, mind and heart racing. "All this time? All of it was just to trick me? Why, you selfish, greedy-"

"Oh, Antonio. Antonio, _darling_, I suggest you just keep your mouth shut now. You're beginning to bore me. But I must be honest, much of what, ah, _happened_ between us was not to trick you at all. In fact, from the very beginning you had me rather enamored, despite your ignorance and, frankly, your complete idiocy, which does not happen often, truthfully. So I must say I'm impressed" Now it was Antonio's turn to interrupt, all of his usual cheerfulness very much gone, smothered in his anger at the man sitting before him.

"You have some nerve to say that! It doesn't matter what happened between our bosses, this concerns us and us only-" But he is again silenced, forcibly this time, by the blow from the gun to his head, leaving his head aching and his mind spinning.

"That is where you are wrong. This has everything to do with our bosses. And I believe I told you to stop talking, and out of turn, at that. It is quite impolite."

Silence. Then-

"But I thought, that- that you loved me, Lovino."

This is not something the Italian had been expecting, and in his brief moment of shock, Antonio throws himself at the other and attempts to wrestle the gun from his hand. But to no avail, for he is knocked heavily to the ground by a second blow to the head. As his vision begins to black out, he can see Lovino walking towards him, gun aimed to his face.

"For the record, Antonio, I do." Then the trigger is pulled, a single shot rings out, and Antonio is dead.

* * *

The mess is cleaned up, the stove turned off, and the body hidden, all in rapid succession. The Italian feels rather numb as he goes about these post-death chores, and tries desperately not to think, not to remember the incessantly happy man he killed, or to imagine what might have been if... well, he doesn't think about it, is the point.

Lovino Vargas had never failed a job, and his record remains untarnished. He is quite an effective killer after all, and besides, he has something of a reputation to keep.

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**Culture Notes**

- Che Peccato: Amongst the members of the Italian Mafia, it was used in reference to the death of a comrade. Means "What a pity" or "What a shame".

- Buonanima: Used as a respectful way to describe the dead. Translates roughly to "God rest his soul".

- Capo di tutti Capi: Italian Mafia slang, means "Boss of Bosses"


End file.
